I’d allowed many a tear to fall in the car as I sat outside the house listening to her voice for a few minutes more. But I didn’t expect to fall apart at the front door to the house. I managed the keys surprisingly well and pushed the door open. The tears were a steady flow and a lump was forming in my throat. I attempted to swallow it as I met the gaze of my ever constant welcoming committee.
“Hi, Jessie J. I’m going to make a recording today.” I tried to choke out a response of interest in my four year old niece’s plans for the day, but the pain hit me hard at that exact moment. Her worry showed on her face. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong, Jessie J?” I couldn’t answer her because my sobs became audible, restricting any possible words from coming out. I carefully made my way to the stairs to descend to my room. She went to the bottom of the stairs that would lead to the top level of the house and called out to my parents, “Jessica is crying.” Normally, I hate it when she calls me that. I cringe when anyone calls me that. She usually only uses that name immediately after my parents have said it. But I heard the softness of the way she said it. I heard the concern in her voice. And I was able to admit that she was right. The realization made my cries louder as I reached my room.
Jessica was crying. That young girl, that lost “young lady”, as my father refers to me daily, was grieving uncontrollably. I retired my name and opted for my initials four years ago. I had taken the first step on a journey to become who I felt I was since the age of seven, though I’d never exactly known who that was. I’d only recently begun dismantling the decades of confusion, mistakes, despair and conforming that had molded Jessica and trapped Judah. But Jessica will always exist. I wept. I wailed. I tried to pull out what little hair I have. I heard my sister call my niece back to her. She’d tried to follow me down to my room like she does everyday. I choked on the vomit that was rising up to my throat and spit out the little that succeeded. All while my parents tried to console me. I finally reached that “don’t touch me!’ jerk away point and they exited the room. On her way out, my mother asked “did something happen at work (someone I cared about passed the month before) or is this about that Glee girl?”
That Glee girl. I said nothing. I remained hunched over with my back to her until she finally left. That Glee girl had created a safe space for me. That Glee girl had given me a circle of friends that I never would have found on my own. That Glee girl had healed wounds that I wasn’t even aware existed. She provided the pen for me to rewrite my future in the way I saw fit. And now her story has been cut short. To say I’m not coping well would be an understatement. I climbed into my bed and cried myself to sleep. I had another sixteen hour shift that would start in less than seven hours. When I returned home the next day, my niece was patiently waiting for me. She told me she’d never seen me cry like that. Never. “It was a lot”, she said. “I just wanted to make you feel better, like Grandma and Papa did. I’m sorry you cried.”
“They didn’t make me feel better, kid. So don’t be too upset.”
“But Jessie J, why couldn’t you tell Grandma why you were crying?”
“You know how you fall sometimes and it hurts so much that you cry really hard?” She nodded. “And when your mom tries to ask what happened, you can’t speak clearly?” She nodded again. “It’s like that. My soul hurts, Beastie. I’m in a lot of pain. Like when Bill Withers died and you wanted him to still be alive and singing in Vegas. I miss a singer too.”
I showed her my phone wallpaper. “She looks pretty.” I was the one who nodded then. “I’m sorry you miss her.” I assured her that she had nothing to be sorry about. Then I retired to my room and to bed, preparing for the next shift. Here we are eleven days later and I have not had a single day pass without me feeling like vomiting. I have struggled through 8 or 9 sixteen hour shifts. I have chastised myself for crying in the shower. I have buried myself in the grief of others on social media, refusing to address my own. As I make plans to travel to California for her vigil, the feeling gets worse. I’m not ready. I will never be ready. But I need the hurt to come. I need to finally pull the knife out of my chest. I will forever feel the lack that her death has left in this world. I am always going to miss the magic of “that Glee girl.” Naya Rivera, for such a long pivotal time in my life, you were my glee. Thank you.
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